


garlands of violets

by celestialfics



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/F, Flowers, Fluff, Getting Together, Holding Hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-06
Updated: 2017-02-06
Packaged: 2018-09-22 08:08:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9595082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialfics/pseuds/celestialfics
Summary: When Hitoka was little, she thought women were flowers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i love this pairing so much, so it was really fun and nice to write for them !!  
> i hope that you enjoy <3

+

 _remember the many garlands of violets_  
_and roses i placed next to you_  
_and_  
_the many flower necklaces i weaved around_  
_your soft_ _  
_ _skin_

[abandoned](https://bacchicstage.wordpress.com/lyric-poets/sappho/), sappho

+

When Hitoka was little, she thought women were flowers. Walking down the street in her yellow rain boots and her hand clasped in her mother’s, she always found herself wondering what kind of flowers all the women that passed by were—busy streets were like fields of lilies, daisies, and forget-me-nots.

She’d made the mistake of asking her mother what kind of flower a woman was once and only once; her hand had been slapped for pointing and her mother had stated flatly, “Women are people, Hitoka, not flowers.”

Of course, Hitoka knew that women were people, but they were _also_ flowers. Or—she was hit by an epiphany—women were made _from_ flowers. And later, when she was all snug in her grandmother’s lap and resting her drowsy head against her grandmother’s chest, she asked: “What kind of flower did you come from?” Her grandmother hadn’t hesitated to reply back with: “Only the tallest and strongest sunflower of the bunch, Hitoka-chan.”

Hitoka then wondered what kind of flower she herself had come from. Perhaps she was a sunflower like her grandmother? Though her mother struck her as a rose—tender and beautiful, but sharp. So, did she, too, come from a rose? Neither option seemed to fit quite right.

+

Even now, when Hitoka’s aged far past the time when she’d believed in things like that, she still hasn’t figured out what kind of flower she would have been, had she come from one.

And while her own flower-identity may remain mysterious to her, Hitoka knows as soon as she sets eyes on Shimizu Kiyoko that she’s a violet.

She radiates something that makes Hitoka’s chest feel hot as she walks down the hallways, the soft shuffling sound of her shoes following her as do the eyes of everyone she passes. Hitoka finds herself swept up in the crowd, too, transfixed on the girl with the black hair and the stack of papers in her arms—transfixed on the violet amidst an empty field.

When Hitoka realizes she’s staring, she jerks her gaze away, and in turn chokes a little on the spit in the back of her throat. She ducks back into her classroom, flushed and flustered all the same.

+

Shimizu is even prettier up close. She’s—she’s stunning, quite literally. Hitoka loses her breath and feels blood rush up to her cheeks as Shimizu talks to her, and she doesn’t register a word. Shimizu moves her hair behind her ear fluidly and leaves her hand pressed to the back of her neck as she speaks, her gaze fixed on the paper she holds in her hands.

A few boys watch them from a little distance away, and Hitoka wonders if they see the same wonderful, blossoming violet that she does.

“So, why don’t we try a trial membership?” Shimizu asks, ripping Hitoka out of her thoughts and smiling expectantly down at her.

Hitoka doesn’t have time to think before she blurts her response: “Uh—Sure!”

Shimizu’s eyes light up and she dives slightly forward, taking one of Hitoka’s hands in two of her own. Hitoka swallows hard; her hands are so warm and so _soft_. Oh, and Shimizu’s blushing, too. _So cute_.

Hitoka stares down at their hands with her jaw dropped, and they hold steady for only a moment before Shimizu lets go, turning away with a promise to see each other later. Hitoka’s hand stays outreached in shock for a few seconds before her gaze darts up to see Shimizu rushing off on her way.

 _Wow_ , Hitoka breathes out to herself, staring in awe at the hallway Shimizu had just waltzed down.

+

When Hitoka first starts managing the Karasuno boys’ volleyball team, she personally and intimately learns that boys do not smell like flowers. She also learns that when Shimizu laughs, her own heart leaps up into her throat, and she has to expend much more energy than natural not to stare.

+

Amidst the blazing heat of summer, Shimizu often wears her hair up and off of her neck, and in turn Hitoka has to dig her nails into her palms to resist the urge to reach up and press her fingertips to the gentle slope of Shimizu’s neck.

Hitoka has become more accustomed to being around Shimizu over time, but her outright beauty hasn’t dimmed in the slightest. Neither has Hitoka’s outright crush—in fact, it’s grown exponentially. Each day, Hitoka’s reminded that not only is Shimizu stunning, she’s also passionate, she’s caring, she’s smart, and while she’s shy around others, she opens up for Hitoka. (Nishinoya and Tanaka have made sure Hitoka knows this.) That sole fact makes Hitoka’s heart flutter in her rib cage.

But in a different respect than that Shimizu is unreachable—she’d never go for someone like Hitoka, would she?—she’s so _reachable_. For instance, right now Hitoka could simply reach over a few centimeters, and their knuckles would brush together. If she lifted her hand a little higher, she could drag her fingers down the skin of Shimizu’s forearm and to her wrist. She presses her nails harder into her palms and gnaws at her bottom lip, attempting to focus on _not_ focusing on Shimizu. The effect is opposite than intended.

“Hitoka-chan?”

Hitoka’s pulled from her failed focus at Shimizu’s voice, and she unclenches her fists.

“Hm?” she hums, looking up to Shimizu.

“Everyone’s taking a break,” she says, and sure enough, as Hitoka scans the court, she sees that it’s been recently abandoned. The players loiter around the sides of the gym, sharing water bottles and passing around towels.

Shimizu continues, “Do you want to go for a walk? Takeda-sensei asked me to go get something from the teachers’ office.” She twirls the granted key around on her index finger.

“Oh!” Hitoka exclaims. “Yeah, sure!”

Shimizu smiles, close-lipped and warm, “Okay, let’s go, then.”

Hitoka allows for Shimizu to take a few steps before she begins to follow, watching as Shimizu’s ponytail swishes back and forth as she walks. Hitoka intertwines her fingers in front of her, just to keep them busy.

Shimizu slows down after a moment, until she and Hitoka fall in step. Their synchronization doesn’t last long, though, because Hitoka’s steps are shorter.

“Do you like summer, Hitoka-chan?” Shimizu suddenly asks, cocking her head to look down at Hitoka.

Hitoka watches as Shimizu’s ponytail flips onto her shoulder. “I—Yeah. I like summer. Do you?” She swallows hard, diverting her gaze.

“I do, too,” Shimizu says, tilting her head up to look at the sky. Hitoka follows her lead and sees the wispy clouds that drift over their heads. “There’s something special about summer, don’t you think?”

Hitoka hums in contemplation. “It’s hot,” comes out, instead of any of the articulate things she had wanted to say. She resists from slapping her palm to her face.

Shimizu laughs, and it goes straight to Hitoka’s chest. _God, she’s so cute_.

“I like the flowers, too,” Hitoka spits out before she even thinks about it, and she follows the statement up with a blush. She’s mostly just glad she could stop herself before she tacked on _violets, especially_. (Not that Shimizu would understand what she was insinuating, but still.)

“Me, too,” Shimizu agrees, and at the words, she crouches down and plucks a little wildflower that Hitoka doesn’t know the name of from where it sprouts just off the pathway. Hitoka stops walking to watch as Shimizu stands back up, pinching the flower’s stem gently between her forefinger and thumb. She rolls the stem between her fingers, then, and both girls watch as the blue petals of the flower flutter at the motion. “I miss flowers when it’s winter,” Shimizu admits, her gaze lingering on the flower before it flickers back to Hitoka.

“Don’t people buy you bouquets?” Hitoka asks in response, holding Shimizu’s gaze for only a moment before breaking away.

After a light chuckle, Shimizu answers, “No, not usually. But… I wouldn’t mind it.”

Hitoka’s eyes train on the flower in Shimizu’s hand. “Shimizu-senpai?”

“Yes?”

 _Do you, maybe— Are you—_ Hitoka clears her throat. “Never mind.”

Shimizu offers a smile as if she understands, and then she leans towards Hitoka, the hand holding the flower slipping beside Hitoka’s face. Hitoka’s breath catches in her throat as Shimizu places the flower behind Hitoka’s ear, her fingers lingering at the side of Hitoka’s face.

Hitoka looks up, catches Shimizu’s eyes, and blushes fiercely. Shimizu just grins, and then nudges Hitoka’s shoulder.

“C’mon, let’s get going.”

+

Later, when Hitoka gets home and begins to prepare for a shower, she realizes the flower is still nestled back in her hair. It’s flimsy, now, as she holds it in her palm, and the petals and leaves are slightly wilted.

Nonetheless, Hitoka opens a book and presses the flower inside.

+

Days when the volleyball team doesn’t have practice are almost always uneventful. Usually, after she’s finished all her chores, Hitoka sketches a little, bums around, or studies.

But today, just as Hitoka’s about to pull out a sketchpad, her phone dings from where she’d prior tossed it onto her bed. She pads across her bedroom floor to retrieve the phone, mostly expecting the message to be from Hinata.

She’s pleasantly surprised, however, to find a message from Shimizu.

 **from:** shimizu ♡  
hitoka-chan, are you busy?

Hitoka blinks at the message. She’s definitely _not_ busy, especially not since it’s Shimizu asking.

 **to:** shimizu ♡  
i’m not!!

Her sketchpad sits abandoned on her desk, and she has a feeling that it’s doomed to stay that way. Her thoughts are swifty proven with the next received message.

 **from:** shimizu ♡  
i’m in the area. do you want to meet at the park ?

Hitoka’s heart catches in her throat, and she quickly taps out her response. She tells herself not to think it, but that doesn’t change the thought that she already has—it kind of sounds like a date.

 **to:** shimizu ♡  
that sounds great!

+

Not thirty minutes later, Hitoka sits on a bench at the park, swinging her legs under her. Her feet scuff lightly against the ground below. She holds her phone in her lap, anxiously flipping it over and back again just to keep busy while she waits.

She doesn’t wait long, though, before Shimizu greets her with a light touch to her shoulder from behind. Hitoka jumps at the touch, as it’d been unexpected, and she looks back sheepishly at Shimizu.

“Ah, I didn’t mean to scare you, Hitoka-chan,” Shimizu apologizes, walking around from the back of the bench to sit next to Hitoka.

Hitoka lets out a bit of a laugh at her own expense. “It’s fine,” she says.

Shimizu looks good. Which is—an understatement, but. Hitoka refrains from ogling at Shimizu’s light washed overalls that she wears with the ankles cuffed. (She mostly has to refrain from ogling at how Shimizu wears a cropped t-shirt under the overalls, actually. Her exposed sides look so _soft_ and pale and there’s a stray freckle _just_ above—)

A bird chirps from somewhere in the tree above them, and they both look up at the sound. When they realize they’ve both looked up together, they look to each other and laugh. Shimizu’s glasses glint in the sunlight.

Hitoka wonders if somehow she’s ascended past human existence and into some kind of astral plane. But, no—she’s just _really_ gay. All is well.

“Hey,” Shimizu speaks up, knitting her fingers together in her lap. “I was wondering from the other day—what’s your favorite kind of flower?”

Hitoka blanches. “I like—I like sunflowers. I used to think my grandma was a sunflower,” she says, and it’s not exactly a lie. She _does_ like sunflowers, even if they’re not her favorite. But if she were to say violets, and then Shimizu were to ask _why_ , she’d be at a loss for an excuse.

Shimizu blinks and cocks her head curiously at the statement, waiting for a follow-up. Hitoka does her best to provide, though she can feel the heat rushing up to her face and tinting the tips of her ears and her cheeks.

“When I was little, I used to think that—that women were flowers, or that they came from flowers,” she says, training her eyes on a patch of grass in front of her. “My grandma was a sunflower, and my mom was a rose.”

Shimizu’s face lights up. “Oh, that’s so cute, Hitoka-chan!”

Hitoka’s blush deepens. “You think so?”

Shimizu hums her affirmation. “Adorable,” she says, and then, “What kind of flower were you?”

“I never figured that out,” Hitoka admits, gnawing at her bottom lip after she finishes speaking.

“Really?” Shimizu presses the pad of her index finger to her cheek and taps a few times as she thinks. “What do you think about a daffodil?”

“A daffodil?”

“Yeah,” Shimizu affirms. “That’s what comes to mind.”

Hitoka hums, contemplative.

“Well, you’re both cute, anyway. Daffodils and you.”

There’s no way Hitoka can cover the choked sound she makes out of surprise at Shimizu’s comment, but Shimizu just grins widely at Hitoka’s shocked response, as if satisfied with herself.

And later—when Shimizu suggests they get popsicles, when Shimizu pays for the both of them, when they sit together and Shimizu’s popsicle begins to melt, when a drop of blue trails down Shimizu’s forearm and she shivers because it’s cold—Hitoka _swears_ she doesn’t have an impulse to lick the sticky blue line left behind on Shimizu’s skin.

Instead, she smiles sheepishly at Shimizu while offering her napkin.

+

When Hitoka gets the chance, she looks up what daffodils mean in flower language. _Creativity, inspiration, rebirth and new beginnings_.

She wonders if Shimizu knew that.

+

Thoughts are dangerous. They intrude and prod and tempt—and yet Shimizu seems so interested in Hitoka’s.

“What are you thinking about, Hitoka-chan?”

She swears it’s at least the third time that Shimizu’s asked her today. And normally, if this were anyone else, any _time_ else, Hitoka wouldn’t mind it. But thoughts are dangerous, and whenever Shimizu asks, Hitoka’s always thinking about her.

“What are _you_ thinking about, Shimizu-senpai?” Hitoka deflects instead of admitting she’d been thinking about sliding Shimizu’s glasses off of her face and pressing kisses to her eyelashes.

“I was thinking about asking you if you wanted to come over tonight,” Shimizu answers without hesitation. “My parents are out of town to visit relatives, so I’d be home alone.”

“Home—”

“Alone.”

Hitoka blinks. _Why does that sound so—?_ She cuts herself off. It’s probably just her thinking that, anyway. “You want me there?” she asks instead.

Shimizu grins. It’s enough of an answer for the both of them.

+

The Shimizu house is nice, but it’s too large and too empty to be in alone without feeling unsettled, surely. There’s something impersonal about it, though Hitoka can’t decipher just what. (Perhaps that’s just it—the lack of things. The walls are white, and the furniture is black. The floor is wood. Otherwise, there’s not much Hitoka can say.)

“Kinda weird, huh?” Shimizu speaks into the open living room, breaking the quiet as she flips on a lightswitch.

Hitoka blinks as her eyes adjust to the light.

“My parents aren’t sentimental people,” Shimizu attempts an explanation, sliding off her shoes and welcoming Hitoka further into the house. “But my room is a bit more comfy.”

Hitoka nods, still absorbing these new surroundings. They walk past the kitchen, and there are no pictures stuck on the chrome fridge. Even in the hallways, no pictures hang upon the walls. Hitoka finds herself wondering if Shimizu grew up here, or if she’d moved here more recently. It doesn’t quite seem possible for a child to live here.

Shimizu’s right, though—her room is much more inviting. Books sit toppled over on a shelf, various colored pillows are strewn across the room, and a cork board with pictures tacked on hangs above a desk. Drawn to the pictures on the cork board, Hitoka takes a step closer.

Lots of the pictures are of the volleyball team throughout the years: full group photos taken after tournaments; pictures of Shimizu with the other three boys in her year; and in the bottom left corner, a picture Yamaguchi had taken at one of the Tokyo training camps with Hitoka, Shimizu, and a begrudged Tsukishima.

“I didn’t know you had this,” Hitoka says, tapping at the picture with her index finger.

Shimizu glances up from what she’d been doing—rummaging through the contents on her bedside table—to see what Hitoka is referring to.

“Oh,” she says, “I asked Yamaguchi-kun to send that to me.”

Hitoka can’t help the smile that crawls upon her lips. “It’s a cute picture,” she says.

“I agree,” Shimizu responds, looking back down at to the table. She finds what she’d been looking for after only a moment longer, producing a hairbrush from the jumble of things. “I’m going to take a shower, is that alright?”

Hitoka blinks. “That’s fine,” she says before her thoughts can catch up with her.

It’s only a few more ticks until Shimizu has taken some clothes out of her dresser and padded out of her bedroom and towards the bathroom.

After looking around at more of the things in Shimizu’s room, Hitoka swallows thickly when she hears the shower head turn on from a few rooms away. Presumably, Shimizu’s _naked_ , and Hitoka needs to eat a bar of soap, or something. She settles for clamping her bottom lip between her teeth and inspecting the books on Shimizu’s shelf.

Hitoka’s taken aback when she finds a book titled “The Language of Flowers.” Sticky notes litter the pages, most without words. A few, though, have scribbled thoughts on them— “ _Grandpa’s favorite_ ” says one, and others are of the same caliber. Another, though, a blue note stuck to the daffodil page, reads simply: “ _Hitoka_.”

Hitoka closes the book and presses it against her chest, as though that will keep her heart from bursting. She’s promptly struck with an idea, though, and she reopens the book, flipping through the pages until she finds the one for violets. The sticky notes are easy to locate, colorful and sitting in a stack upon Shimizu’s desk.

Hitoka uncaps a pen and scratches “ _You_ ” onto one of the notes before she presses it to the page, her fingers lingering on the freshly inked word. Once satisfied, she closes the book with a soft smacking sound and slides it back where she’d found it on the shelf.

Shimizu reenters not long after, donned in fuzzy sleep pants and a loose white shirt not unlike the one she wears at practice. Her hair is still wet against her back and shoulders, leaving slight wet patches on the shirt.

“Hi,” she says as she walks in to see Hitoka sprawled face down across her bed, hair pulled up into a ponytail and also freshly changed into pajamas that they’d stopped at Hitoka’s house earlier to get.

Hitoka flips over and sits up. “Hi,” she says back.

“Do you want to go outside?” Shimizu asks, then.

Hitoka meets her with a bemused look, but agrees nonetheless.

Shimizu leads her through the bare hallways and to a sliding door that opens to a deck, and they stand together just outside the door for a moment, the only sounds the chirping of cicadas and wind rustling leaves in the trees, before Shimizu looks up and Hitoka follows suit.

“The stars are out,” Shimizu says, and she takes a few more steps out further onto the deck before she sits down. She pats the space next to her, and Hitoka takes the invitation. She sits criss-cross and leans back on her palms, but Shimizu next to her reclines until she lies on her back with an arm crossed behind her head, looking up at the sky.

Hitoka looks back over her shoulder at Shimizu, her damp hair splayed out on the deck under her. Hitoka clears her throat and opens her mouth to say something, but shuts it when nothing really comes to mind. Instead, she just leans back until she lies next to Shimizu.

“I like to sit outside at night when it’s still warm,” Shimizu says towards the sky, but turns her head to face Hitoka before she speaks again, “I think that’s another special thing about summer.”

“It’s nice,” Hitoka agrees. The humidity in the air presses lightly against her skin, and the temperature is at the precipice of being just a bit chilled.

Shimizu hums in agreement, and before Hitoka even has time to think about anything else to say, Shimizu has reached over and slipped her fingers in between Hitoka’s.

Hitoka promptly stops breathing.

“Shimizu-senpai—”

“Kiyoko is fine,” Shimizu says, accompanied with a light squeeze of Hitoka’s hand. “If you want.”

Shimizu’s hands are warm and soft and _fitting_ and Hitoka wonders if Shimizu can feel her pulse pumping violently through her veins. In theory, Hitoka would reply with words, but those seem to be failing her, so she just squeezes Shimizu’s hand back.

+

Hitoka isn’t quite sure where her relationship with Shimizu stands, now, as she stares up at the ceiling in her bedroom just thinking about the night prior. Holding hands—while surely a gesture on its own—doesn’t quite guarantee romantic feelings on Shimizu’s part.

She should probably just ask, but if she even attempts, she’ll most likely drop dead of embarrassment, regardless of Shimizu’s response. Hitoka groans and flips over, burying her face in her pillow.

And so, it’s more of a waiting game.

Waiting, though, is awful, and Hitoka can’t suffer this alone. It’s not _too_ late at night; if she wants to talk to someone, they’ll probably pick up. But just who is a slight dilemma.

Hinata is a viable option, but something tells Hitoka that he wouldn’t be of much help in this situation. He doesn’t always weigh options so well, and sometimes he says things without really thinking them through. (And even _more so_ than Hitoka doesn’t want to ask Shimizu herself, she doesn’t want Hinata to accidentally ask for her.)

The next person to come to mind is Yamaguchi. He’s less simple-minded, and though Hitoka doesn’t want to assume, she has a feeling that he might have an inkling on what it’s like to be in this situation. So, Yamaguchi it is.

 **to:** yamaguchi !  
hi yamaguchi-kun, sorry for the short notice but can you call?

Yamaguchi’s response is almost instantaneous.

 **from:** yamaguchi !  
whats up yachi-san??? is something wrong??

As Hitoka types out a response, her phone begins to ring—Yamaguchi must’ve gotten impatient.

“Hello?”

“Are you okay?” Yamaguchi asks in lieu of a greeting, and the slight panic in his voice cannot go unnoticed.

“I’m fine,” Hitoka assures, “I just need some advice.”

Yamaguchi’s sigh of relief is audible even over the phone line. “Okay. What’s up?”

“It’s about Kiyoko,” she supplies, and attempts to work up her courage, “I… I like her, you know, like… _that_.”

Yamaguchi doesn’t reply for a few moments, but then, “Is that all?”

“No!” Hitoka says, “I just thought you needed some context.”

“Context received, then,” Yamaguchi chuckles, “Proceed.”

Hitoka swallows. “Uh—Well, she held my hand yesterday. When I was at her house. Does that—does that mean anything?”

“Yachi-san,” Yamaguchi says, like she’s missing out on something obvious. “You really doubt that Shimizu-san likes you back?”

Hitoka blinks once, twice. “I mean—”

“Because she definitely does.”

“How do you know?”

“ _Yachi-san_ ,” Yamaguchi groans. “How do you not know?”

“Well—what do I _do_?” Hitoka sounds too desperate for her own liking, but there’s no way to take it back.

“Talk to her?” Yamaguchi suggests as if it’s obvious, and now it’s Hitoka’s turn to groan.

“That’s easy for you to say, when you’re not in the situation,” she complains, flopping over onto her side and transferring the phone to her other ear.

“Okay, maybe you’re right about that.”

Hitoka imagines the guilty grin that she’s sure paints Yamaguchi’s face.

“But Yachi-san,” he continues, “You can’t expect her to do everything. Both people have to make the moves, sometimes.”

Hitoka can’t help but wonder: “Do you speak from experience?”

Yamaguchi stutters. “I—Uh, yeah. I do.”

She smiles, though Yamaguchi can’t see it. “Okay, I’ll try my best—to make a move. You think it’ll go okay?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Yamaguchi assures.

“Thanks, Yamaguchi-kun. Really.”

“It’s no problem. Tell me how it goes?”

“Sure thing.”

It’s only after Hitoka hangs up that she realizes she has no idea what an appropriate _next move_ would be. But… she’ll figure something out on her own.

+

Yamaguchi shoots Hitoka a look and gives her two thumbs up as she walks next to Shimizu the next day. Luckily, Shimizu doesn’t see, but Hitoka blushes and looks down at her feet.

+

It’s actually a few days until something happens, though. School and practice and walks home are _normal_ , painfully so, and Hitoka feels like she needs to make this infamous _move_ quickly, before Shimizu either forgets about the hand holding completely, or thinks that Hitoka’s not interested in anything more. (Of course, there’s still the possibility that _Shimizu_ isn’t interested in anything more, but Yamaguchi repeatedly assures Hitoka that he’s positive that isn’t the case. “Shimizu-san is probably giving you as much time as you need,” he’d said. That does seem like a very Shimizu thing to do, Hitoka will admit.)

But now, while the volleyball team is having a practice match against the Neighborhood Association and Hitoka and Shimizu are in charge of the score, Hitoka finds herself distracted during a particularly long rally.

The smacking of the volleyball against skin is constant. _Receive, set, spike. Receive, set, spike, block. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat_.

And Hitoka’s thoughts are still dangerous, transferring swiftly from the match before her and to how Shimizu’s lips might feel against her own, or how Shimizu’s neck might feel with Hitoka’s lips pressed against it.

Hitoka doesn’t hear—or rather doesn’t register—the thump of the volleyball hitting the floor, but she does notice when Shimizu flips the score card.

Shimizu cocks her head. “What’re you thinking about, Hitoka-chan?” She asks her question, again.

“Kissing you,” Hitoka answers before her brain has time to catch up, and her soul promptly leaves her body and transcends all space and time. When it returns, though, she’ll have to dye her hair and change her name and move to America, never to be seen or heard from again.

Shimizu flushes, though only to a fraction of the intensity at which Hitoka flushes. “Oh,” she says, and she flips her side of the score card again when they hear another smack of the volleyball against the floor. “Maybe later?”

Hitoka decides that she can move back the date for fleeing Japan to after whenever this _later_ is.

+

Evidently, _later_ comes much sooner than Hitoka had anticipated. She's been blushing for what seems like hours—she hasn’t stopped blushing since the slip of her tongue, but Shimizu seems to rather enjoy it, since she smiles every time she glances over at Hitoka.

Shimizu somehow gets them excused from practice early, probably under the premise of “running errands,” or something of that caliber, but Hitoka won’t complain.

After Shimizu slides the gym door shut behind them, a certain tension hangs in the air. It’s not _unpleasant_ , per se, but it causes Hitoka to act quickly.

“Do you want to come to my house?” Hitoka asks, staring down at her fingers that she intertwines in front of her. “My mom works late tonight, uh—so.” She swallows thickly.

“Sure, Hitoka-chan. Let’s go,” Shimizu says, and she compels Hitoka forward with a light touch to her bicep.

As they walk, Hitoka realizes that _that_ was it; she made her move. And soon, she’s going to—she’s going to _kiss_ Shimizu. _Oh, god_. She’s never kissed anyone before.

Hitoka takes in a deep breath, but it’s hardly enough to prepare for what comes next.

“What kind of flower am I, Hitoka?” Shimizu inquires, and she reaches over to take Hitoka’s hand in her own. (It’s just as warm and soft and fitting as it was last time.)

Hitoka glances down at their entwined hands, and she says, “Didn’t you see? I wrote it in your book.” She looks up to match Shimizu’s gaze.

One of Shimizu’s eyebrows raises slightly. “I didn’t see,” she replies.

“Oh,” Hitoka breathes, redirecting her gaze ahead. She clears her throat. “Well, you’re a violet.”

Shimizu hums. “Very pretty,” she comments.

“You are,” Hitoka replies immediately, accompanied by a fierce blush, “So, it’s fitting.”

Shimizu stops walking, and in turn Hitoka stops walking. Then, Shimizu slips her hand out of Hitoka’s so that she can cup both sides of Hitoka’s face in her palms, and Hitoka stands frozen with her arms hanging at her sides.

And Shimizu just looks at her, eyes soft and fond, and Hitoka thinks she might explode. No one’s ever looked at her like that before, with such—such fervor.

So she does all she can think to do and rolls up onto her tiptoes, causing Shimizu’s hands to drift down to her sides while her own hands move to hold onto both of Shimizu’s shoulders. Once in this position, Hitoka holds eye-contact with Shimizu and blinks once, twice, before she leans in and presses her mouth to Shimizu’s.

Somehow, it shatters every expectation of a first kiss that Hitoka’s ever had. It’s _better_.

Shimizu is so _warm,_ gentle, and timid as she slowly and slightly tilts her head and moves her lips against Hitoka’s. Her fingers grip lightly at Hitoka’s shirt at her sides, and everything’s sliding, swimming, slipping. There’s no way Hitoka can think about anything else in the world right now besides Shimizu, warm and right here in her grasp. She clenches the material at Shimizu’s shoulders into her fists, but then she breaks away with an almost obscene smacking noise, staring up at Shimizu with wide, awed eyes.

Shimizu just smiles, wide and bright, and lifts her hand to trace her thumb against Hitoka’s bottom lip.

And maybe Hitoka had stopped believing that women came from flowers a long time ago, but she thinks that Shimizu might be living proof that they do.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments and bookmarks are all greatly appreciated !!  
> thank you for reading  
> <3 <3


End file.
